


the pressure is rising (and I can hardly breathe)

by InsanelyYours96



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyYours96/pseuds/InsanelyYours96
Summary: Stiles has never rested in silence.And sometimes, it feels like he never will.





	1. Chapter 1

“Don't feel bad. If she lives, she'll become a werewolf. She'll be incredibly powerful.”

Stiles can not believe the gall of Peter Hale.

The man is a fool, and an arrogant one at that. Stiles slams on his brakes in the middle of the road and turns. Looks him dead in the eye.

In fact Stiles _does_ feel bad, feels like the filthiest piece of garbage in the world,

(he only cares because she can stop the voices, after all. Otherwise Lydia is nothing to him, with her stupid pretty face and better-than-you attitude and petty high school grievances)

but more than that he is pissed. A little scared, too, because who knows if Lydia will survive this. Banshee’s are immune—that’s their thing—but they’re human, too. They can bleed out.

Peter’s blue eyes flare red and the Alpha coloring doesn’t flicker out like Scott’s Beta gold eyes are wont to do. It seems Peter can sense the change in the air, which is probably good for his health, because the moment Stiles feels Lydia succumb to blood loss he is dead.

Stiles will scream until his fucking skull explodes.

Peter had all ready ruined Lydia; that much, Stiles was sure of. He heard the start of it on the field, whispers breaking through the strange bubble that had always enshrouded her as the bite triggered dormant genes.

He stares Peter down, accusatory, teeth grinding, hands trembling and clenching around the steering wheel.

The one spot of quiet, of normalcy, in his life, and Peter Hale had destroyed it.

Stiles rage burns in his gut and he wants Peter to burn, too.

Maybe he can recreate the molotov cocktail Lydia had prepared at the school— _working_ , this time.

It would be as psychologically traumatizing as it is painful, he’s sure. Burning once is bad enough. Burning twice…

There’s a reason Stiles’ enemies steer clear. He can be vicious given the proper provocation, but truly anger him and he will tear you limb from limb.

“Drive, Stiles,” Peter commands, never once blinking, never once taking red _red_ eyes off of him.

Stiles smiles tightly, turns his eyes back to the road, and drives.

He’ll get his chance soon enough, but ruining his baby’s interior is not on his list of priorities. Not tonight.

Besides, he’s kind enough to let the asshole get his revenge first. He deserves it, after all.

* * *

Peter doesn’t offer Stiles the bite, nor does he physically threaten him. Goads him, sure. Uses Scott against him, naturally. But he seems almost wary in that parking garage, tracking Stiles’ every twitch carefully.

As well he should. Stiles will end him for taking away his one escape. It’s just a matter of time.

* * *

Later, when Peter is once again a burn victim and once again not quite as dead as he should be, Stiles strides forward. He stomach turns—burning the beast was satisfying only until it turned back into a man—but he doesn’t let it deter him.

Derek growls when he gets close.

“Stiles!” Scott yelps. “Stay back, it’s not safe—”

“It’s all right, Scotty,” Stiles says, even though it really wasn’t. Nothing was all right anymore.

The voices were louder than ever. Laura stood, a silent presence over his shoulder. He couldn’t tell if she was goading him on or wanted him to stop.

It didn’t really matter.

Stiles had already decided.

Five sets of eyes burn into his back. Derek tries to glare him into submission. When he reaches out Stiles raises a hand, opens his mouth, and Derek is flung back by the resulting sound waves.

Behind him, Laura roars.

That’s payback for the concussion, he thinks bitterly.

Derek’s ribs are shattered. He won’t be able to move for some time, now. Laura hovers over him, unable to touch. Unable to help.

He’s almost glad for that, too. She deserves a little suffering after all she’s put him through.

“Ban… shee…” Peter gasps out, eyes inordinately wide.

Kate’s heart had stopped but her soul has yet to pass. He would have to check on that. Finish her off, if needed. Peter really wasn’t great at this revenge thing.

Stiles smile is warped when he raises his hand, a thousand voices roaring in his ears.

Scott makes a noise of confusion. He might hate him, after.

Stiles finds he doesn’t care. Not right now.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Peter’s eyes go bright red, and he looks momentarily terrified. He opens his mouth to say something, but it’s too late.

The shrapnel of Peter’s skull explodes and brain matter splatters. He’s dead before he can shut his mouth or blink.

Stiles takes a deep breath as he feels the spirit leave his body and Alpha power seep into the Earth… into Stiles’ skin.

He ignores the strange warmth coiling through him. He did not do this to become an Alpha.

Stiles is pretty sure Alpha’s don’t _exist_ among banshees, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Kate should already be dead.

That’s something Stiles knows down to his very bones.

Yet he can see the tangled soul clinging to her body, sharp talons curling into shoulders and translucent legs wrapped tight around her own waist. This isn’t something Stiles has ever come across before. He typically only sees the souls of people who are actually, actively dead.

Chris Argent is ducked over the body, two fingers pressed to her wrist, unable to see how his fingers are passing through her incorporeal form. Stiles doubts she has a pulse yet, but she will. She must be very determined for her soul to begin shifting before her body has gathered the energy to. Stiles knows he would rather change than die, but then again he isn’t a Hunter.

(Kate hardly seemed a proper one, either, but that's beside the point.)

“What are you?” Chris asks, and Stiles manages to pull his eyes away from the grotesque image to face down the barrel of a gun. Chris’ face is clear of tear tracks but his eyes are fever-bright, and Stiles has a feeling this isn’t going to end very well at all.

The dark shackles of spirits clanking around Chris’ ankles does little to reassure him.

“I’m a banshee,” he offers mildly, considering the gun. The safety is off, and while he might be able to knock it out of the hunter’s hands if he screams, Stiles doubts he’d be quick enough to avoid the resulting bullet.

“A Harbinger of Death,” Chris murmurs, brow creasing. “Here you had me convinced you were just some spastic human kid.”

“I am a spastic human kid,” Stiles retorts. “I’ve just got a bit extra.”

He cocks his head, eyeing the barrel of the gun. Stiles thinks he should probably be shaking by now. He’s rarely so calm.

But there is a heat in his bones, a feeling of invincibility. It might be the death of him. He’s always been cautious, but now he feels brash.

He takes a breath and opens his hands at his sides, trying to disperse the electricity he can feel crackling through his bones. He stares at Chris, considering.

“Will dehumanizing me help put a bullet in my head?” he wonders. “Or does my putting down Peter give you licence to kill me when you were ready to do the same?”

“You aren’t a licensed hunter,” the Argent rebuts coolly. “You don’t have the authorization to make those kinds of decisions.”

“And you do?” Stiles glances at Chris’ ankles, and it’s truly irrational, how unphased he is by the gun to his head. “You get, what, a hunter's license, and it makes it okay for you to kill children? You decide who lives, who dies, and pretend the deaths of those who you’ve killed with doubts in your heart don’t cling to your ankles like chains.”

Stiles looks back to Chris’ face. It’s still stone cold, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Stiles think…

“I don’t understand what a three year old could have done to deserve a bullet through the head, but I suppose it’s better than being cut in half like her mother.”

A muscle in Chris’ jaw clenched, and Stiles exhales. He meets blue eyes with his own whiskey, and swallows.

“You were going to kill Peter; I just got there first. If you’re going to shoot me, do it, and come up with a damn good cover story to tell my dad, because I swear to God if he finds out about any of this supernatural bullshit I will haunt you from beyond. And Banshees can’t be easily banished, unlike our ghostly counterparts.”

Chris stares him down for a long, long time. Stiles holds his gaze. If Chris shoots, he may be able to stop the bullet in midair. Probably not, though.

The safety clicks on, and Stiles exhales.

“Stay away from my daughter,” he says fiercely.

“I already do? You’re hunters, for fucks sake.”

Chris looks unamused, but Stiles wasn’t joking, so that’s okay.

“Before I skedaddle with my life spared, I should probably take care of your sister — unless you want her to come back a shifter?”

Surprise flashes through blue eyes before brows pull down, furrowing over them. “It’s a family matter,” Chris dismisses, careful not to take his eyes off Stiles. “I’ll take care of it.”

Stiles — well, Stiles really shouldn’t push his luck, should he, so he gives a sharp nod, turns on his heel, and leaves.

He’s just climbing into his jeep when a shriek of rage pierces his ears, and Kate’s soul is pulled from this world.

* * *

 “You screamed for us, didn’t you?” Peter whispers into his ear hours later. “I hadn’t realized you would be so young.”

“Fuck off,” Stiles grunts, fingers twitching against his laptop’s keyboard. “Kinda busy here.”

Despite his words Stiles spares his English paper very little attention, because clearly he needs to reassess Peter Hale. The man was many things, but he was no fool.

Anybody with the foresight and knowledge required to tie their soul to the realm of the living, even when half-mad with rage and grief, couldn’t be written off so easily. Peter’s presence was too solid for him to have done anything less than anchor his spirit, especially considering that Stiles method of execution should’ve pushed him from the mortal realm permanently.

He hadn’t wanted the man’s ghost hanging around. He’s had enough Hale’s haunt him.

Having a contingency plan like that up his sleeve when going to face down the Argent’s was something Stiles couldn’t help but respect. In his current state Peter might actually be capable of clawing his way back to life.

Stiles’ leg bounces up and down as he thinks. He taps out the concluding sentence, then hits enter and indents.

Ignores the eyes burning into the back of his head. He’s had a lot of practice.

Laura’s conspicuously absent — probably still hovering over her brother to make sure he heals properly. Stiles knows she feels some guilt towards Peter, and he doesn’t want to be around during that confrontation. If they have that confrontation before Peter’s hitched a one-way trip back to his body via Lydia.

(And if he thinks he’s using Stiles to play fetch, he takes back all those thoughts of his cleverness back.)

Stiles has finished up, done a quick edit and hit print before Peter speaks again. His voice is low and silken, as collected as it had been until the very end.

“What was it that triggered you, Stiles? My family burning?”

Stiles takes the time to tuck the paper into his AP English Lit binder and zip up his backpack before turning to face him. Peter sits on the edge of his bed, naked and burnt.

Stiles has seen worse, but it was still rather gruesome, especially knowing that it had been done by his own hand.

Peter’s mind would need to heal considerably before his skin did.

“I really don’t owe you answers,” he says, because it feels like a better response than _I heard hundreds of deaths before your pack_ or even _fuck off._

Peter considers him. “You did kill me,” he says, like that should count for anything.

“Not until you earned it,” Stiles snaps, and it comes out a lot more vicious than he intended.

Stiles figures Peter has earned it, though, because when he snuck into Lydia’s room with Scott the voices didn’t go quiet. They didn’t go clear, either. They got _loud_ , so loud he thought his head might just burst, like the last time he listened to his mother's tape collection and Laura Nyro’s voice screeched out from the speakers like a nuclear blast.

Peter looks slightly surprised at his heat, but it fades quickly enough. Stiles doesn’t care what he thinks — he’s dead _,_ anyway, what does it matter — and quirks a not-quite-right smile.

“I could have destroyed you in that jeep,” he tells him. “Torn your soul apart until no force could bind you together again.”

He lets Peter think on that for a moment. How he wouldn’t even be here now, on Stiles bed, burnt but still whole, if Stiles hadn’t allowed him to be.

“Why didn’t you?” Peter asks, almost unnerved. Mostly curious.

“I’m not a total monster,” Stiles says, and he believes that. Believes it even though his own mother hadn’t. “You deserved your revenge, and it’s not like you realized what biting Lydia meant to me. Meant  _for_ me.”

Peter appears thoughtful for a long moment, before realization seems to set in.

“A banshee that hasn’t reached maturity,” he murmurs. “Of course. You canceled each other out.”

“Got it in one,” Stiles agrees, turning back to his computer. “I’ve got homework to catch up on, now that a crazy Alpha wolf isn’t running around in my town. Vamoosh.”

When he glances back at his bed fifteen minutes later, Peter is gone.


End file.
